April's Fool
by NoTimeToStop
Summary: Stiles loves practical jokes; April Fool's Day is his favorite day of the year. But when Stiles suddenly finds himself alone and in need of help, will he be able to convince Scott and his father that this time he's not joking? {Non-supernatural AU} [The first two chapters were edited March 31st, 2017]
1. Act One: Prank War

**April's Fool**

 **Act One: Prank War**

April Fool's Day was the bane of Sheriff John Stilinski's existence.

He didn't know what idiot had decided it would be a good idea to set aside one day a year for practical jokes, pranks, and hoaxes, but he thought that person should be strangled with their own whoopee cushion. It wasn't that the sheriff didn't have a sense of humor, because he did (in fact, he liked to consider himself quite the fun guy), but he had a problem with any kind of humor that hinged on humiliating other people, scaring the bejeebers out of them, creating a mess, or propagating falsehoods.

On average, he found most people forgot about or didn't bother with the "holiday" (if that was what one could call it), and he might have passed the day without any incident whatsoever. April 1st might have just been another typical day for the sheriff, just another twenty-four hours to check off his calendar at the end of the day, if he hadn't been blessed with Stiles as a son.

When people first celebrated April Fool's Day, they must have had Stiles in mind. His boy - the jokester, the trickster - thrived off any opportunity he had of making a fool of himself and others, and of supplanting authority. It wasn't unusual for Sheriff Stilinski to receive phone calls from Stiles' school - an angry principal or frenzied teacher, a harried secretary or irritated janitor - complaining that Stiles had: ripped the seat of Mr. Jorgen's pants by putting glue on his chair; poured itching powder in the mesh jerseys during Phys Ed.; caused an epidemic of projectile vomiting with his phony puke and realistic-looking pile of plastic excrement; set off a stink bomb in the library that made it impossible to even enter (the stench lingered in book pages for weeks); taped Out of Order signs to all the urinals in the boys' bathroom and greased the toilet seats; and sent Mr. Hunter into cardiac arrest with his fake blood and severed hand in Wood Working class.

Sheriff Stilinski had heard it all. How many hours had he spent trying to talk school officials down from their hysterical fits, claiming "he's just a kid," "it was a harmless prank," "he enjoys celebrating April Fool's day?" Negotiating Stiles' hyped up sentence down from three weeks suspension or a month's detention to a week or a day, promising to give his son a stern talking-to and suggesting the school allow Stiles to make it up to them by helping out in classrooms – banging chalk erasers or cleaning up litter – the way they used to when he was a kid.

And they would have their talks: Sheriff Stilinski scolding Stiles for his impish behavior. Stiles would nod his head solemnly and say he was sorry. He would promise to ease up on his pranking, and then he would offer the sheriff a Jelly Belly candy that tasted like rotten eggs or canned dog food. Being Stiles' father did not exclude the sheriff from Stiles' April Fool's pranks. Quite the opposite. He was Stiles' first victim every April 1st morning. Loosening the lid on the salt and pepper shakers, so that when he went to add a dash of each to his scrambled eggs, a mountain would topple out. Using a second universal remote to change the channels while he was trying to watch the news. Changing the ringtone on the sheriff's cell phone to something sexual and inappropriate - trying explaining that to the visiting District Attorney! - or modifying the language settings on his computer to Chinese or Greek. Hiding rubber snakes in the sheriff's bed or a severed head in the fridge.

John wished that once, just _once,_ Stiles would forget about April Fool's Day.

Last year Sheriff Stilinski had forgotten. He had woken up before his alarm, only to turn over and see that his clock read 9:00, and he was already an hour late for work. He had rushed through his morning routine, nicking himself while shaving, and accidentally pouring lukewarm coffee down the front of his clean shirt. Stiles had entered the kitchen in his pyjamas, laughed, grabbed the box of Cheerios, and good-naturedly declared "April Fool's!" He had (mischievously, albeit with an undeniable quality of love) set his father's alarm clock ahead two hours. Not only was the sheriff not late; he could have slept longer.

This year Sheriff Stilinski was determined to be prepared. The night before, he made sure Stiles was in bed and asleep before he went to bed himself. He set the alarm on his phone, and kept his cell hidden under his pillow, so Stiles wouldn't be able to mess with it or try an encore of last year's prank. He woke up early that morning, and carefully inspected everything before he used it – toilet seat (Stiles wasn't too old or too mature to go for the classic saran wrap trick), toothpaste, mouthwash, shaving cream. He sniffed and tasted the sugar before he dumped it into his coffee. He examined his clothes for itching powder, checked that the pepper spray in his gun belt was, in fact, still pepper spray. (There had been one horrible year when Stiles had switched out his mace with silly string. He had promised never to touch or meddle with his father's gun belt again, and while the sheriff wanted to believe him, he wasn't quite sure he could. With Stiles, you never knew. Not that he thought his son would lie to him – especially not after seeing the way his father had reacted to the fact that a) he had messed with his father's police equipment, b) tampered with something that could have led to a dangerous situation, and c) been that close to the sheriff's gun, despite all the gun-safety rules John had been drilling through Stiles' head since he was a child – but because his son was by nature impulsive and attracted to trouble.)

Sheriff Stilinski made it through his morning routine – shower, shave, dress, breakfast – without incident, and he was growing increasingly suspicious. As he sipped his coffee dubiously, waiting at any moment for it to explode in his face, or something equally dramatic and ridiculous, Stiles came into the kitchen. The boy yawned and scratched at his belly button through his thin t-shirt. "Morning," he yawned again.

"Morning." Stiles rummaged through the cupboards for something to eat, finally deciding on a half-eaten pack of frosted donuts on the counter, and grabbed the jug of milk from the refrigerator. Sheriff Stilinski followed him with his eyes.

"What?"

"What do you mean, 'what'?"

"Why are you giving me the creepy cop stare? I feel like you're trying to catch me shoplifting or something."

Sheriff Stilinski raised an eyebrow. Could it be? Had Stiles actually forgotten what today was? "Don't you have something you'd like to say to me this morning? Something you'd like to _do_?"

"Uh, no?"

"Hm." Sheriff Stilinski didn't let himself hope. He watched as Stiles crammed two donuts into his mouth, the powdered sugar gathering at the corners of his lips, and attempted to chug half a liter of dairy before he'd completely swallowed. John shook his head. "That isn't much of a breakfast."

"Why not?" Stiles' mumbled. Bits of dough spitting out. "It's grain, right? And dairy. That's, like, two food groups right there."

The sheriff sighed. "If your mother was here, she'd skin me alive for letting you eat like that."

Stiles smiled. "She always said I take after you."

"God forbid." Sheriff Stilinski glanced down at his watch. "I have to get going. I'm not sure when I'll be home tonight. Probably late. I want you in this house by dark. Lock all the doors and remember to set the alarm. With the recent string of robberies in town, I want you to be careful."

"Yes, sir!" Stiles saluted with his index and middle finger.

"Don't be sarcastic with me. I mean it, Stiles. _Don't forget_ to set the alarm tonight."

"I won't. Don't worry so much."

"I'm supposed to worry. I'm your father." Stiles trailed his father to the front door at a safe distance. The sheriff opened it and stepped out. The day was sunny and bright. The air was a little cool, but fresh and crisp. A perfect spring morning. Across the street, Mrs. Henderson was walking her poodle. She looked back over her shoulder curiously, then herded her yapping dog more quickly down the street. Parked in the driveway was Sheriff Stilinski's police cruiser. His work vehicle was covered in post-it notes! Hot pink, lemon yellow, neon green, cobalt blue, and lilac purple. Not an inch of the car was bare. Even the tire rims were covered! "Damn it, Stiles!"

"April Fool's!" Stiles was doubled over just inside the door, his hands on his knees, laughing so hard at the expression on his father's face his stomach hurt.

"Get out here and help me clean this up!"

"Sorry, Dad. Gotta get ready for school or I'm going to be late." Stiles raced up the stairs and into the bathroom, slamming the door shut safely behind him.

Sheriff Stilinski walked around his car. Stiles had been extremely thorough. When had he found the time to do this? He must have had help, an accomplice; there was no way he did this alone. Scott McCall. Definitely Scott. He was usually Stiles' partner-in-crime. He'd have to give Melissa a call later and see if she had been on the receiving end of any of the boys' little jokes.

He peeled a few notes off the rear window, creating a small space he could see through, and climbed into the driver's seat. He rolled down his window and the passenger's. They wouldn't go down easily, the notes getting tangled, but it would do. He turned on the windshield wipers. They swept back and forth rapidly, _thwack, thwack, thwack,_ ripping off several notes each time they moved up. It was good enough. He was already running late. He'd order a deputy to clean off the rest once he arrived at the station – once his colleagues got over their initial fits of laughter.

Sheriff Stilinski backed onto the street carefully. The post-it notes fluttered in the breeze as he accelerated. A pink note unstuck from the hood and was lost to the wind. It drifted away and down, settling contentedly in the middle of the pavement. Sheriff Stilinski wished his son would start acting his age, wished he would take his position as the only child of the town sheriff seriously, and behave in a way people could admire and respect. Whether Stiles wanted them to or not, people looked at him closely and judged his behavior - and by his behavior they judged his father.

If Stiles had done the same prank to anyone else, the sheriff would have been wildly impressed. He would have laughed and been secretly proud. Instead, he was irritated and exasperated. Nothing he said made it into Stiles' thick head. The boy did whatever he wanted, without a clear understanding that his actions had consequences.

 ** _TEENWOLF_**

"How did your father take it?" Scott asked, holding one of the heavy school doors open for Stiles so he could enter ahead of him.

"He was mad. You should have seen his face. It was hilarious."

"What did he do?"

"He got in and drove off."

"He didn't even take off the post-its?"

"Nope. Here, look." Stiles pulled his cellphone from his pocket, and showed Scott a video he had shot from an upstairs window. The brightly colored cruiser crawled down the street like a gaudy misplaced Easter float. Scott laughed.

"That's great. And he wasn't expecting it?"

"He was expecting me to do something, but pranking the cruiser came as a total shock." His father wasn't the type of person who was easily surprised, and Stiles felt proud that he had been able to pull one over on his father. He had put a lot of thought into his jokes this year; he had been looking forward to April Fool's Day for weeks. He was elated the prank on his father had gone so wonderfully.

As Stiles spun the dial combination to his locker, he could feel Scott excitedly watching him. His friend was rocking back and forth on his heels, chattering aimlessly about nothing. Suspicious. Stiles paused. "You know, Scott buddy, I don't think I actually need anything in here."

"What about your Physics textbook? You need that, don't you? We have it second period."

"I'll get it later. In-between periods."

"You won't have time."

"I can wait."

"Here, I'll do it!" Scott snatched the lock out of Stiles' hands. He deftly inserted Stiles' combination, stepped aside, and opened the door. As he did, a pile of rubber spiders spilled to the floor. Scott smiled and looked up smugly.

"Lame. But it does concern me how well you know my combination."

Scott pouted his disappointment. "The combination's your birthday. Not exactly hard to guess."

Stiles reached inside, avoiding the rubbery legs, and grabbed his textbook. "You were right. I do need this." He slammed his locker shut and headed for class. Scott moped beside him.

"Come on. Weren't you shocked even a little?"

"By fake spiders? No. You're going to have to do better than that."

Lydia Martin and Allison Argent were approaching from the opposite direction, headed – as they were – for American Literature class. _Perfect,_ Stiles thought. He reached into his pocket and slightly slowed his pace. Wait for it, wait for it. The right moment. He had to time this correctly. Scott (just as Stiles knew he would) stepped in from of him quickly, and gentlemanly opened the classroom door for the girls. At the same moment, Stiles pretended to smack into the door, using his foot to create the proper sound effect. "Oh God!"

Scott, temporarily distracted from making lovey-dovey eyes at Allison, whirled around. "Oh my God, Sty! Dude, I am so sorry. You're really bleeding." Stiles cupped his hands around his nose, using this thumb to squeeze the concealed packet. Fake blood oozed between his fingers and down his hands. He howled in pain and hammed it up. Allison blanched at the sight of his 'blood,' and Scott continued to apologise profusely. "Aw man, are you alright? I'm sorry. It was an accident. I didn't realize you were that close."

"Here, let me see," Lydia spoke calmly, reaching her dainty hands to his face.

Stiles dropped his hands, revealing his unbroken and blood-free nose. He smirked. "April Fool's!"

Lydia and Allison frowned. "That wasn't funny, Stiles."

"Come on. It was a little bit funny." He looked to Scott for support. Scott agreed readily, relieved he hadn't broken his best friend's nose. He fist-bumped his acknowledgement of Stiles' superiority.

"Definitely better than the fake spiders."

They took their seats near each other, a tiny cluster. As they waited for class to start, they discussed April Fool's Day. "I think it's juvenile," Lydia supplied, picking at a fleck of nail polish on her right hand.

"I don't mind a good prank now and again," Allison admitted, "but I think it's silly to have an entire day set aside for them." She glared at Stiles. "And I don't think pretending you're hurt is very funny."

"What? That was classic." Stiles turned in his seat so he could high-five Scott.

"It was immature. You do those kinds of things, and someday no one's going to believe it when you're really hurt." Allison felt very strongly about the point. Hadn't Stiles ever heard the story of the boy who cried wolf? Lydia pointed a manicured finger at Allison appreciatively and nodded: "She's right."

Scott was rummaging through his bag, pulling out papers and textbooks. Everything but what he was obviously hunting for. "Dang, I forgot a pen. Does anyone have one I could borrow?"

"Sure, bud. Here ya go."

"Thanks." Scott accepted the fancy ballpoint pen Stiles offered him. "Hey, this is nice." He clicked the top of it. A startling jolt of electricity shocked his hand and traveled up his arm. He immediately dropped the pen. Stiles laughed, and even the girls couldn't suppress a small chuckle.

"I can't believe you fell for that! You're so gullible!" Was he? Scott liked to think he wasn't, but maybe he was. Stiles had already tricked him twice in the span of five minutes. He was going to have to step up his game if he wanted to get him back.

And so the prank war began. The day unfolded in a series of practical jokes between the two friends: before the end of first period, Scott stuck a "Kick Me" sign to Stiles' back; in retaliation, Stiles glitter-bombed Scott with supplies from the art room before third; during lunch, Scott dropped a rubber fly into Stiles' fish chowder when he wasn't looking (Stiles scooped it out with his spoon and disgusted his friends by continuing to eat the soup anyways), and Stiles shook up a can of Pepsi before passing it to Scott; Scott wrote a love letter to Coach Finstock in Economics and signed it with Stiles' name. In study hall, before Scott was fully seated in the chair beside Allison, Stiles shoved a whoopee cushion under Scott's butt. The flatulence noise was so long, so loud, and so glorious, and both their cheeks so awkwardly and beautifully pink, Stiles dissolved into a fit of hysterics powerful enough to knock him backwards out of his chair. Beside him, Lydia cracked a smile.

Scott's revenge came at the end of the day, and it was brutal. Perturbed that Stiles had one-upped him again – and in front of his crush – Scott resorted to underhanded and merciless tactics. Nonchalantly he made it known to Stiles that he had overheard Lydia and Allison during recess: Lydia had called it quits with her most recent boyfriend and was back on the market. She had, and so Scott quoted, felt she couldn't in good conscience date a guy, when she knew she loved someone else. Someone she saw everyday, had been friends with since grade school. Someone she had been waiting on for months, if only he would find the courage to speak up.

Stiles inspected his friend's face. Usually he could read Scott like an open book, but not this time. He couldn't tell if Scott was kidding him or not, but he couldn't take any chances. This could be it: his moment. The fruition of his five year plan! He raced down the hallway to find Lydia, rounded the bend, and saw her sucking face – very publicly – with the latest flavor of the week: a guy on the lacrosse team who's IQ was lower than the lint in Stiles' bellybutton. He slumped back to Scott, hefting his bag higher on his shoulder, and chiding himself for being so naïve. He shouldn't have gotten his hopes up. He was smarter than that. "That was a dirty trick," he growled, seeing the self-satisfied look on Scott's face.

"Maybe, but I finally got you."

"Yeah, you did."

"C'mon. Don't be sour. It was a joke."

"Fine." The final bell rang, releasing them from secondary hell for the weekend. "What do you think? Arcade then pizza?"

Stiles' face was impassive, and Scott wondered if he had crossed a line. "Sure."

"My keys are in my backpack. Can you grab them for me? Front pocket." Stiles stood waiting, his back turned, as Scott dipped his hand into the indicated pocket, and his fingers brushed something hairy. "Ah!" He pulled his hand back out quickly, repulsed and horrified. Was Stiles carrying around a dead mouse? It felt like a dead mouse! Stiles laughed, extracted his keys from his jeans pocket, and twirled them on his finger. "Gotcha again! I am the prank _master."_

As they climbed into the Jeep, Scott and Stiles called a truce: no more pranks. Humiliating each other in school was embarrassing and hilarious; humiliating each other in public would have been downright cruel. At least, that was Scott's line of reasoning. Secretly he was terrified at the thought of Stiles duping him again. He wasn't sure his nerves could handle it.

At the arcade, a large luminous room that smelled of Cheetos, adolescent sweat, and frustration, the boys spent all their quarters trying to beat each other at skee-ball, Mortal Kombat, and racing simulators. After spending the last of their change on an old pinball machine, Scott gallantly not rubbing it in Stiles' face when he won by two games (okay, maybe there was _some_ rubbing), they headed to a local pizzeria a block over. Gino, the owner, greeted them warmly, slapping Stiles on the back and saying, as he always did, "How is your papa? That man, he save my life!" Sheriff Stilinski hadn't really saved his life, but had arrested a perp who had made off with the cash in the till, but in Gino's eyes, they were the same thing. He was always glad to see Stiles come in.

They shared a large pepperoni pizza – graciously sold at the family discount – and a plate of spicy chicken wings. They chatted and discussed game strategies, until Scott couldn't take it any longer. "I'm sorry," Scott apologized, referring to the mean joke he had played on Stiles. He had been proud of himself at the time, but when he thought about it, he started to feel guilty. Stiles had brushed it off like it wasn't a big deal, but Scott knew it was. He hated feeling guilty, especially about hurting his friend; it left an icky feeling in the pit of his stomach that made it difficult to enjoy the pizza. "You really like Lydia, don't you?"

"Yeah," Stiles mumbled, his mouth stuffed with cheese. "I do."

"I'm sorry, man," Scott reiterated. He was a despicable human being. Sure Stiles had embarrassed him in front of Allison, but what Scott had done was savage. I just-"

Stiles held up his hand. "Let's just drop it, okay? It's fine."

"I know, but-"

"Look, it wasn't a big deal. It was funny. I didn't think you'd have the balls to try something like that."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah, so just chill out and eat. You know what?" Stiles held up a chicken wing. Its dark red sauce glistened in the florescent lighting. It was so spicy, he could practically feel the heat in his fingers. "I bet I could eat more of these than you without taking a drink."

"You're on."

After stuffing their faces and burning their tongues to near oblivion, they decided to call it a night, though the evening was still young. Their typical Friday guys'-night-out needed to end earlier than usual. Scott had other commitments: last week, he had been "volun-told" by his mother to house-sit for their neighbours, the elderly Millers. The Millers had lived on their street long before the McCalls had moved in, and had acted as a set of adoptive grandparents to Scott growing up. They were gone for the weekend – visiting their daughter and grandchildren in Palm Springs. Due to the recent break-ins in the area, they were anxious about leaving their house empty and unattended. They had offered to pay Scott to fed and walk their dog - a fearless Yorkshire terrier named Waffles - water their plants, and spend a couple nights in the house in the guest room. Then they could rest easy, knowing their house and precious canine were safe.

The Millers had a fully-stocked fridge, a 65 inch television, and a thousand channels – Scott didn't really need convincing. He loudly complained to his mother about being volunteered to house-sit, but he was beyond excited. A weekend alone! A taste of independence, of the good life! Forty-eight hours to himself. The Millers' one unfortunate rule was that he could not invite friends over. They trusted him enough to leave their home and beloved pet ("Mommy's baby!" Mrs. Miller exclaimed, planting kisses all over the yorkie's face before she left) in his care, and he intended to honour that trust. So while the only thing that would have made his weekend better was sharing it with Stiles, he knew he shouldn't. Even if the Millers never discovered he had broken their rules, he would know. His conscience was too acute. He couldn't do it.

Scott and Stiles parted shortly after 7pm. Stiles drove Scott home in the Jeep, so he could grab his stuff before walking two doors down to the Millers'. Melissa was climbing out of her vehicle, dressed in her scrubs, looking tired and exhausted. Scott took her purse from her, and she kissed his cheek. She waved at Stiles, "Hi Stiles. Coming in?" He was basically a permanent fixture in their house. A fact she had accepted a long time ago.

"Not tonight, Mrs. M. Did you have a good day?"

"It was...a day." Melissa McCall was another member of the Anti-April Fool's Day club. Each year people came into the hospital and wasted her time with their hoaxes and jokes, as if she had nothing better to do than indulge their jokester whims. Of course she had to wait on all of them, weeding out fact and fiction. On April 1st, the ER tended to be packed. Filled with practical jokers whose pranks had gone wrong: snake bites and chemical burns, allergic reactions and stings, gashes on hands and heads and buttocks needing fifteen stitches and a painkiller. Her personal favourite was the young man whose girlfriend had reflexively attacked him with a hot frying pan when he jumped out and frightened her.

Scott had played a tame joke on her this morning – fitting saran wrap tightly over the keyhole so she couldn't stick in her key to unlock the door. He knew better than to mess with his mother, especially on the days when she was tired and stressed. Instead he had focused his energy into helping Stiles with his elaborate prank on Sheriff Stilinski. It had taken them until 3am, waiting and waiting until the sheriff finally drifted off and they could start. But from what Stiles had said, it was totally worth it. Scott only wished he could have seen John's reaction firsthand.

Next year Stiles was talking about filling the sheriff's bedroom with balloons – a prank they had watched British Youtuber Joe Sugg pull on his roommate Caspar. That would require even _more_ time and planning, but Scott was excited for it. He would never have the gumption to pull something like that on his own.

Stiles bid the McCalls goodnight and headed for home. The sun had already dipped over the horizon, and was casting its last rays into the sky in an awesome spectacle of pink, orange, and purple. Beautiful as the colours were, they brought a smile to Stiles face simply because they reminded him of his father's squad car.

Stiles parked his Jeep, unlocked and relocked the door behind him, threw his keys onto the counter, and washed down the pepperoni pizza from earlier with a Hot Pocket, a row of Oreos, and a glass of milk. He flopped down on the sofa and flipped lazily through the channels, looking for something decent to watch. Friday night viewing choices were slim pickings: action movies, sitcom reruns, reality shows about cops (no thank you, he got his fill of that everyday), and bad comedy shows. He settled on the last forty-five minutes of the "Mazerunner" movie, and watched three back-to-back marathon episodes of a far-fetched MTV series about angsty, supernatural teenagers.

The analog clock in the living room _ticked, ticked, ticked_ away the minutes. Stiles was bored. It was a Friday night, and he was stuck home alone with nothing to do. Scott was busy, and while Stiles had plenty of other friends at school (okay, maybe not _plenty,_ but he certainly had several…well, maybe only a few…all right, there weren't that many, but it was like he was a complete loner!), they weren't necessarily people he could call up and ask to come over. They were the kind of friends he rarely spoke to outside of school, or else hung out with only when hanging out with a large group. They weren't the kind of people he could ask to chill one-on-one, and he didn't want that anyway. He could count on his hand the number of people he actually enjoyed spending time with.

Stiles wondered what time his father would be home. The sheriff would probably be exhausted, but that was okay. They didn't have to do anything or talk. They could just sit on the couch together, eating Doritos and watching bad late night TV. Or maybe they could put in one of those Michael Keaton movies his father loved.

How strange that he could miss the man he lived with - especially when he'd seen him only that morning.

Stiles turned off the television, lumbered up to his room in the dark, and powered up his computer. He was too lazy to bother turning on any lights or do more than change into pyjamas. He sat slumped in his desk chair, the blue glow of his screen illuminating his face, as he scrolled listlessly through Facebook: photos recently uploaded of parties and #besties, news trends about celebs, sports, and politics, and things he didn't care about in the slightest. After Facebook, he apathetically checked Twitter and Instagram. Oh look, Lydia had posted a selfie with her boyfriend. And _he_ was making a duck-face. Yuck. Exceedingly yuck.

Youtube offered more amusement, with its cute pet videos, elaborate hidden-camera pranks, and stupid antics. It was a good time-waster, sucking him in with its autoplay function and video recommendations. Stiles wasn't sure what time it was when his iPhone started playing its easily identifiable jingle. He paused his current video of James Corden's "Carpool Karaoke." The number on the call display was not familiar to him, but he answered. "Hello?"

Heavy breathing. "Do you like scary movies, Stiles?" a gravelly voice asked.

"Am I supposed to say 'yes'?"

"What's your favourite?"

"Is there where I say 'Halloween', or "Nightmare on Elm Street," and you tell me you want to rip out my guts like Freddy Krugger?"

"Don't be a smart ass. Everyone has a favourite."

"Action flicks are more my thing." Stiles clicked out of Youtube and typed away. _Clack, clack, clack._ "And I'm always a smart-ass. It's part of my charm."

"How do you feel about games? Want to play a game?"

"Not really. Games are lame."

"Where I am right now?"

"Let me guess: you can see me, and you're probably in the house."

"Why don't you come see?"

Stiles sighed. "Scott, this is boring. And unoriginal. I'm disappointed in you."

"Who's Scott?"

"I know it's you, idiot."

"Aw. How did you know it was me?" The caller returned to his normal octave. Stiles could practically _hear_ him pouting through the phone.

Stiles rolled his eyes and leaned back in his chair. "For starters, I Googled the phone number, and it's listed as the Millers. More importantly, you _suck_ at disguising your voice. We're going to have to work on that."

"I thought my Ghostface impression was pretty good."

"You sounded more like a chain-smoking Cookie Monster. How's the house-sitting going?"

"It's awesome. They have hundreds of movie channels, surround-sound, a dozen flavors of ice-cream in their freezer, and they installed a Jacuzzi a couple weeks ago. I may never leave!"

"You never know, maybe the Millers will adopt you. I'm sure they wouldn't… ..."

"…wouldn't what?"

"Wait." Stiles strained his ears; he thought he had heard noises downstairs. Not loud sounds, subtle but abnormal. Not the familiar creaks and groans he was accustomed to - the fridge kicking into high gear or a raccoon rummaging in the garbage bins on the back porch. He had lived in this house his entire life; he knew every nook and cranny. He knew intimately every sound: the breathing and sighing of the walls at night, the rasping of the plumbing, the settling of the floorboards as the house cooled.

"What is it?"

"Shh." There it was again. A step on the stairs, followed by another. Was his father home? Stiles glanced out the window. His Jeep was parked alone in the driveway. Up and down the street was dead. No cars. No movement. The street lamp flickered once. Stiles lowered his voice. "I think there's someone in the house." A whispered voice echoed. Not his own. Someone was here. He was sure of it now.

"Stiles, that isn't funny."

Stiles' heart pounded in his ears. Had he set the alarm? He couldn't remember. What should he do? He felt frozen in place. Should he try climbing out the window? Hide in his closet? Crawl under the bed? Maybe his father had gotten a ride home from work – the cruiser still covered in post-its and useless in the dark – or maybe it was one of his deputies. Maybe Sheriff Stilinski had given someone his keys and asked that person to check in on Stiles. Wait, not person - _people,_ plural.

A hushed voice – less skilled in the art of whispering – replied to the first.

Stiles knew better than to call out. In scary movies, asking "Who's there?" was like signing your own death certificate. He needed a plan; he needed to think. Scott was on the line, growing increasingly frantic. He didn't believe Stiles – didn't _want_ to believe Stiles.

"Look, man, I know I crossed the line with the Lydia joke, but this isn't funny. Prank calls are one thing, but this...this is a whole different category. So just cut it out. You're not fooling me."

Stiles didn't have time to convince Scott. He needed to move. He needed to free up the phone line. "Scott, I'm not joking, okay?"

"Stiles, I-"

"I have to hang up."

"Don't!"

"Call my dad."

 _Click!_ "Stiles!" Scott stared at the lifeless phone in his hand. The disconnected line screeched at him to hang up. Stiles was taking the joke too far this time. It was too much. Bloody noses and severed body parts were one thing, but this... This was a hell of a way to try to get back at him.

Had Stiles sounded scared? Or was he imagining that? Maybe Stiles was a better actor than he gave him credit for. Or maybe Scott was projecting his own emotions into Stiles' voice. Either way, this had to be a prank. Of course, it was a prank. It wasn't real, couldn't be real. Could it? Scott didn't know what to do. He didn't want to be made a fool of again. Stiles could be purposefully putting him in a position where he'd be forced to humiliate himself – call 911 and then have to embarrassedly explain to the officers it had been a joke all along. Sometimes Stiles just didn't know when to stop.

Then again, could he afford to take that risk? Brush it off as nothing more than a prank when his friend was in real trouble. "Call my dad" - that was the last thing Stiles said. Maybe Stiles would pull a prank like this on Scott, but would he pull the same stunt on his father?

Scott made a decision, and dialled.


	2. Act Two: Invaders

**Act Two:** **Invaders**

Stiles hung up on Scott, trusting his friend would make the right decision and call his father. The voices were getting louder – climbing the stairs to the upper level; they were on the landing now – and he needed to think fast. He closed his computer screen, plunging his room into complete darkness, expect for the little blinking light on his laptop – tiny and bright white – and the red glow of his alarm clock. It was already after eleven. Surely his father would be home soon. He hoped.

Stiles' bedroom door was open. There was no reason to close it when he was home alone. It made him feel claustrophobic when it was closed, cut off from the rest of the house. It gave him comfort to be able to hear his father coming home and moving around in the kitchen (though he would never admit that to the sheriff). Stiles crept forward soundlessly, on the front pads of his feet, avoiding the board near the light switch he knew creaked. He peered into the dark hallway, his eyes adjusting to the darkness. There were two of them – men, judging by the size of them. One was about the height of Stiles, but bulkier, the other tall and board-shoulder; seeing him only from the back, Stiles' first thought was _footballer player._ His shoulders were straight and wide, giving him the appearance of perpetually wearing shoulder pads. If necessary, Stiles might have been able to take on the shorter one, but he was no match for the bigger guy, and especially not the two of them together. Stiles would have to rely on his wits – as he usually did – and hope his opponents weren't as intelligent as he was.

The two intruders were dressed in black (assumedly; it was difficult to differentiate between shades in the dark), and in their leather-gloved hands they wielded flashlights. The bright beams sliced through the dark, revealing household items in circles of light. Pinpointed pieces of a larger puzzle, an illegal treasure hunt. They were taking their time, strolling down the hallway and peeking their heads into rooms. Looking everything over before the real work began.

Clearly they weren't worried about time or finding anyone at home.

One of the men, the big guy, picked up a vase that had always reminded Stiles of the marbles he had kept in a mesh bag as a child: white, with streaks of orange and blue. "Hey, do you think this is worth anything?" His voice was low and deep and slow. The other man glanced briefly over his shoulder. "No. It looks like something someone picked up at a yard sale." The vase, now deemed worthless, was carelessly replaced. It teetered on the edge of the table, and Stiles' breath caught in his throat. His mother had purchased that vase. Maybe it wasn't monetarily valuable, but to him and his father, it was priceless. It hadn't come from a yard sale, but from a charity auction for underprivileged children. Every time Stiles looked at that vase he was reminded of Claudia – her beautiful smile, the hazel of her eyes, the depth of her empathy and compassionate heart. His mother had loved and cared for people, even complete strangers, more deeply and profoundly than anyone he had ever met. The vase was a small proof of that.

The vase wobbled unsteadily and then righted itself. Stiles released an inward sigh of relief, but the intruders had already moved on. They were down the hall in his father's room; he could hear them in there, rummaging around, opening drawers and the closet door. Stiles walked softly, carefully distributing his weight so he was light on his feet. As children, he and Scott had practiced their stealth. Pretending to be ninjas, they would sneak around the McCall residence with the lights off and try to scare each other. Stiles glided out of his room like a ghost. Silent. Breathless. He just needed to reach the front door, run to the nearest neighbour and call 911. Hopefully his father was already on his way now, with a dozen squad cars for backup.

"Hey! What's that? I thought you said no one was home!" Stiles froze. He waited for the blinding glare of the flashlight to fall upon him, but it did not. It was trained in the other direction, illuminating the long, lumpy shape under the covers of the sheriff's bed.

"Chill out, Clive," the other man commanded, ripping back the sheets to reveal an inflatable gorilla. He barked a laugh. "Better keep your voice down, or it might jump up and attack you."

"What the hell?"

The other man laughed again. "You gotta hand it to the kid: he's funny."

Stiles didn't stay to listen to more. They continued ransacking his father's room, invading the sheriff's personal space, but what could he do? He crept noiselessly down the stairs. One of the steps creaked under his weight and he paused, listening, but the men had not heard. He reached the bottom – the front door was in sight; the phone in his hand buzzed again and again, but he didn't dare answer, not while he was still in the house. He glanced down briefly at the screen; his father was calling him.

The robbers had finished in his father's room, and emerged into the hallway. Stiles was at the foot of the stairs, and he bolted for the door. He threw it open and ran into the cool night. He raced through the yard, the damp grass clinging to his bare feet, and hurtled over a hedge. He did not look back. A burgundy car was parked across the street, a 1996 Toyota Sedan, positioned just outside the radius of the street lamp's light. A woman, thick-haired and beautiful, was sitting behind the wheel. The radio played softly – a popular pop song the local radio station played every fifteen minutes. She brought a lit cigarette to her lips, inhaled, and slowly exhaled a puff of smoke that circled around her head. The circle of burning ash was a red firefly in the dark. She allowed the arm holding the cigarette to dangle out her window, her hand limply motioning to the repetitive techno beat. She didn't notice Stiles until he was almost on top of her car. He barreled at her vehicle, nearly tripping as he skidded to a stop outside her window and smacked against her side mirror.

"Jesus Christ!" the woman swore, dropping her cigarette. "What's wrong with you, kid?"

Stiles bent at the waist and grabbed his knees. He huffed and panted. "Call." Huff. "The." Puff. "Police."

The woman's eyebrows furrowed at the center. She had high arching eyebrows that looked unnatural. They were too thin and symmetrical in shape. "What's happening?" she asked, glancing up and down the street, as though the source of his distress would suddenly appear to her, manifesting before her eyes. She needed to _see_ the disaster, another disciple of the false belief that emergencies are loud and chaotic, and do not happen behind closed doors in safe, sleepy neighborhoods.

"Two guys…breaking in…to my…house!"

"Okay, sweetie. Just slow down. Breathe." The woman opened the car door and climbed out. She was tall, very tall – much taller than Stiles expected. Stiles was of average height – standing 5 feet 10 inches, but this woman was easily an inch taller than him. He glanced surreptitiously at her feet – she wasn't wearing heels. Her feet were encased in black combat boots that were simultaneously sexy and dangerous. "You're bleeding."

"Huh?" The woman's hand ghosted across his forearm, and Stiles glanced down at his exposed flesh. There was a thin, shallow gash. Blood was slowly seeping out. He must have cut himself on a branch or a hedge thorn. His adrenaline had prevented him from noticing. It didn't even hurt. "It's fine. My house…those guys – they're breaking into my house!"

"Which one is it? Which house?"

"That one." Stiles pointed to his shadowed house, appearing falsely empty from the outside, except for the door standing wide open. "Number 45. We need to call the police!"

"You mean you haven't called them yet?"

"No." Stiles shook his head. "I needed to get out first."

The woman smiled. "Smart boy." There was a purse at her side, dangling from a thin strap on her shoulder. She began rummaging inside, and Stiles hoped she had something in there that would help him: a cell phone or an FBI badge, maybe a couple Prozac or a dose of Ativan.

His own phone vibrated, and the buzzing seemed to tingle up his entire arm and into his chest. Stiles had forgotten he was holding it. "I'm shaking," he realized. He checked the screen. It was his father calling him again. Scott must have phoned him. _Thank you, Scott!_ "It's my dad. I should-" Stiles looked up and stared into the barrel of a handgun.

He considered trying to make a run for it. The woman smiled and clucked her tongue. "I wouldn't try it. Come on, cutie. Let's get you back home." She held out her free hand. "And I'll take that phone from you. Hurry up."

Stiles handed her his phone, but his fingers refused to unclench. She took it from him, turned it off, and slipped it into her purse. Stiles wished he would have answered his father's call when he had the chance. His first concern had been getting out of his house and to safety, like he had been taught; how was he supposed to know that the first person he'd meet would be in on the crime?

"Okay, let's go." The woman slipped her arm through Stiles' and began leading him back toward his house. To the average observer, perhaps they would have looked like a couple returning from a date out-on-the-town. The Friday night shenanigans of young lovers. Had those observers bothered to look closer, however, they might have noticed the incongruities: the young man's pyjamas versus the woman's casual, dark attire; the stiff way he walked, his eyes focused straight ahead; her hand placed at an odd angle at his side; the complete lack of expression on either face; the boy's bare feet. Any of the residents on the street would have recognized Stiles instantly – "Hal, that's the sheriff's boy, isn't it?" – even in the dark, and they would know the scene was strange and out-of-place. They neighbours were always being nosy: peeking out their windows like creepers, gossiping about the single sheriff (widower) and his only son, just waiting for the next minor catastrophe so they could call up their friends and swap stories about Beacon Hills' finest. "That poor man, raising that boy by himself. Do you know what the kid did this time?" "The sheriff is such a nice-looking man. Why doesn't he remarry?"

Normally Stiles resented them and their prying, the meddling hold the neighbours had on their lives, but now he silently begged them, any of them, _one_ of them, to peek out from behind their curtains. Leave their televisions and cups of tea long enough to take out the trash. To be possessed by the curiosity that always led them to snooping; all the times the neighbours had spied on the Stilinskis, why couldn't they look out the window now, when he needed them, and see what was happening on the street?

No one looked. No one stirred. Stiles was on his own.

The woman steered Stiles to the back door. In the light offered by the silver crescent moon, he could see the scratches and marks around the lock. Idiot. If he had set the alarm, like his father had said, it would have screeched when they touched the door. Stiles could hear two voices whispering loudly from inside, and he might have laughed at how sloppily they operated, if he wasn't in the situation he was. Sloppy criminals were the worst kind. They were dangerous. Unpredictable. Desperate.

The conversation stopped when the woman opened the door and pushed Stiles inside. "Honey, I'm home," she called sarcastically. Stiles normally appreciated sarcasm, especially in women, but not when they were robbing his house.

"Marlena?" A square head appeared from the dining room. It was the football player. The one called Clive. He seemed to loom in the archway between the rooms, his hair almost brushing the top. He was taller than Stiles had first anticipated. "What are you doing here?"

The other man stepped from around him and into the kitchen. "You scared the shit outta me. Why aren't you in the car?" His eyes fell on Stiles and narrowed into slits. "Who's the kid?"

"He lives here! I told you to make sure the house was empty, dumbass."

"We thought it was," Clive volunteered.

"Clearly you thought wrong." Marlena motioned with a sweep of her arm towards the wall. "Did you not notice the Jeep parked in the driveway? _Morons._ Ten houses! We've hit _ten_ houses, and this is the first time we've had this problem! I knew I should have taken the lead on this one."

"You were the one who complained about having to do everything yourself," the other man argued, while Clive nodded, his head springing up and down like a bobble-head. " _You're_ the one who wanted to wait in the car this time and let me take lead."

"No wonder I have to do everything myself. You two imbeciles can't do anything without me."

While the burglars argued, Stiles slowly inched down the length of the counter. Marlena was blocking the back door, but her attention was entirely fixed on her partner. Clive stared blankly between the two of them, his hand swinging back and forth following their volleyed words, like a child watching his parents fight. There was a half-full pot of coffee near the sink. Stiles wrapped his fingers around the handle. The coffee inside was cold, but the pot itself would function as a decent weapon.

As the arguing escalated into yelling, Stiles saw his chance. He darted around the kitchen island, heading for the dining room. There was a moment of surprise as the yelling stopped, and then the man lunched for Stiles. He grabbed the boy's arm. Stiles whipped around with the coffee pot and smashed it hard against the man's face. The glass shattered against his skin, and the coffee splashed into his eyes and hair. He released Stiles and put his hands to his face. "Fuck!"

Clive's reaction time was slower. He ducked around his partner and made to tackle Stiles, but Stiles dodged him. He ducked under the man's arms and bee-lined for the front door, which was standing partially open. (These guys really were stupid. How could they have missed that?) He was so close. He was going to make it!

"Don't move, kid!" Stiles didn't need to look behind him to know that Marlena had run from the back door, and now stood with her gun trained on his back. The snap of the hammer as she cocked the gun seemed to be the loudest sound he had ever heard. Maybe he could still make it. He was only two feet away. He could bolt now, right now: reach out, grab the door knob, and slam it shut behind him. However, no matter how poor of a shot she was, Marlena would be able to hit him at such close range, even if he was a moving target. The door would stop the bullet, or at least slow it down, if he could make it outside fast enough. His only hope was to act quickly. Or, failing that, hope someone would hear the explosion of the gunshot and call 911 before the burglars escaped or he bled to death on the floor.

It was a risk he was willing to take – this could be his only chance – but he hesitated. And in that split second of hesitation, Clive reached him. His beefy arms wrapped around Stiles' waist and pulled him back into the house. Stiles fought against him, but it was pointless. This guy easily had a solid fifty pounds on him. Marlena stomped to the front door, slammed it shut, and bolted it from the inside. Her luscious lips were barred in a scowl. "You're really starting to piss me off, kid."

Clive pushed Stiles back towards the kitchen. He stumbled over the uneven flooring. The other burglar, Marlena had called him Bob – a completely boring, mundane, ubiquitous name – was slouched over the kitchen sink. He pressed a damp dishcloth to his cut face to soak up the blood. _Ew,_ Stiles thought, _we wash our dishes with that. I'm definitely going to have to throw it out._ Blood dripped from Bob's nose onto the counter, and he tilted his head back to slow the flow, simultaneously transitioning the cloth from cheek to snout. "Can you not stand there?" Stiles was unable to keep himself from asking repulsively. "I don't want your blood making us sick. For all I know you have AIDS or something."

"Aren't you a fucking smartass?"

Marlena grinned with the right side of her mouth. "He's got a lot of spunk. I'll give him that."

But spunk did nothing to protect Stiles.

"We'll see how funny he is with my foot up his ass."

 _Shut up!_ Stiles' brain commanded, but his lips ignored the message. He raised one eyebrow and snarkily retorted: "I'd like to see you try." _Dumb! You dumb idiot!_

The corners of Bob's lips twitched slightly, as if he were tempted to smile. Instead, he hauled back his right arm, and smashed his fist into the side of Stiles' mouth. Without even dropping the dishcloth. Stiles fell to the floor. He rubbed the back of his hand across his lips. He could tell the bottom one had split open before he saw the blood smeared on his skin. He could taste rust and copper pennies. He needed to spit, but didn't want to do so on their kitchen floor.

"Why don't we get out of here?" Clive suggested, shifting nervously on his feet, looking lost and confused

"No way. We're finishing this job."

"Fine." Marlena grabbed Stiles' upper arm and yanked him up. "I'll take care of the kid and then we'll finish what we came to do."

"And then after?"

"We'll decide what to do with him then."

In the black night, Sheriff Stilinski dialed his son's cell number again. The first time Stiles didn't pick up, he could understand. Maybe the boy was in the shower or watching television with the volume jacked up too loud. Maybe he was in the kitchen making himself a snack or he'd already passed out for the night. The second time he started to become frustrated, wondering if maybe this _was_ a trick designed to make a fool out of him. Maybe Scott and Stiles were pranking him, trying to catch him twice in the same day. If so, Stiles had seriously crossed the line this time, and the sheriff was going to have to take action: revoke his Internet privileges, or something equally devastating to a modern teenager.

Post-it notes he could live with, but Stiles should have known better than to pull something like this: under _no_ circumstances was it ever acceptable for him to make a joke out of his personal safety. God, didn't the kid know how much his father worried about him?

When his third and fourth calls also went unanswered, frustration gave way to fear and mounting paranoia. Even if this was a joke, would Stiles continue it this far? Would he really wait until his father had arrived all the way home to spring the punchline? When he tried a fifth time, and his call went directly to voicemail, Sheriff Stilinski floored the gas pedal. He disconnected his call without leaving a message and dialed the station. "This is Sheriff Stilinski. Send a couple squad cars to my house pronto. I may need back up." This wasn't a joke, he knew. Stiles might prolong the joke by not answering, but he certainly wouldn't _turn his phone off._

His son was in trouble. He prayed he would make it there in time.


End file.
